


Shiny Happy People

by whiteowl



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-14 21:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4580361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiteowl/pseuds/whiteowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vera Bennett: The seasoned corrections officer. Bridget Westfall: The brand new resident psychologist. The two have a great deal to contend with at Wentworth prison, including each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An unexpected pairing, yes, but this idea has been kicking around in my mind for quite some time. I love Vera, and I love Bridget, so I thought, hmm, why not?

“Look, she’s asking for trouble, is all I’m saying here,” Will said as the officers walked into the break room. He was taking about Governor Ferguson's decision to immediately instate the smoking ban.

“Yeah, and it’s our job to make sure that there isn’t any,” Vera replied.

She then took notice of the small blonde sitting alone at a table.

“Ah, this is uh, Bridget Westfall,” Vera said, stopping in front of the table to make a proper introduction. She motioned to Will. “Will Jackson.”

Bridget rose from her seat, smiled, and extended a hand to Will.

“G’day,” she greeted.

“Nice to meet you,” Will said, accepting the proffered hand and shaking it.

“Miss Westfall is a forensic psychologist,” Vera explained. “She’s joined the staff on a full-time basis to run some anti-recidivism programs with the women.”

“Well, there’s one you won’t have to worry about,” Will shared. “Bea Smith. Life, no parole.”

Bridget’s eyes narrowed. “When did this happen?”

“Uh, this morning,” Vera said. “We’ve just returned from the governor’s briefing.”

Bridget’s blue eyes, which had just seemed so warm and friendly, became slightly icy as she fixed Vera with a cold stare. She then gathered up her things and sauntered to where Vera stood.

“May I please speak with you privately?” Bridget asked, the tone of her voice low but firm.

Vera eyed Bridget curiously. The psychologist was standing so close, Vera could smell her perfume. It was something floral.

“Is there a problem?” Vera questioned.

Bridget smirked. 

“Only a small one, but I’d like to get it taken care of before it turns into an even bigger one.”

Vera nodded curtly. “Outside, then.”

The moment the two women stepped out into the hall, Bridget immediately began.

“If I am going to work here, that means I am going to have to be part of the team,” she said. 

Vera’s eyebrows rose.

“I’ll need to be included,” Bridget explained. “In everything.”

Vera surveyed the woman standing before her. Though small in stature, in that very moment, Bridget seemed like she was chiseled from granite, with an air about her that demanded respect. She stood ramrod straight, chin up, maintaining eye contact.

The brunette also noted that she and the blonde were quite similar in build.

“You’ve only just arrived,” Vera scoffed, straightening her own back. “Don’t think you can just come in here and start demanding things. I’m sure the governor would’ve included you in on the briefing, had she felt it necessary.”

Bridget took a couple of steps forward, leaving a mere inch of space between the two of them. 

“I have been brought in to counsel the women,” the psychologist drawled. “Bea Smith was just given life without parole. If I am here to look out for the mental health of the inmates, don’t you think that keeping me in the dark about important things that impact the psychological wellbeing of the prisoners, will interfere with me doing my job?”

Vera was silent. 

Bridget had a point. This tiny blonde woman in her fancy clothing and clinking heels, had a point. 

Well, fuck.

“I will speak to the governor about this,” Vera promised crisply.

Bridget shook her head and smiled. “I was intending on speaking to her myself,” she said. “I was just hoping for some support from the deputy governor.”

Vera rolled her eyes. “And who says you’ve got my support?”

Bridget’s mouth twitched. “I’m not presumptuous enough to think that.”

“It sounds like you are,” the brunette accused, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ll have you know, I fully support the governor in every decision she makes. The only reason I’ll speak to her about it, is so that she is aware of your feelings.”

The blonde raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you worried that my dissatisfaction will cause some kind of disruption? Or, perhaps, you think I’ve made a good point?”

Vera shot Bridget an incredulous look. “For someone who claims she doesn’t make presumptions, it certainly sounds to me like you’re making some.”

Bridget smiled wryly. “I’ll want to talk to Bea Smith,” she said, and then turned on her heel and strode away, one hand tucked snugly into the pocket of her dress trousers.

Goddamn her. Who did this Miss Westfall think she was, coming in here on her first day and trying to assert herself? Vera had been a scared little lamb on her own first day—hell, she’d been a scared little lamb for several years of her career—and here this woman was, this psychologist, walking through the doors and expecting to be noticed and heard and respected on her first day?

Goddamn her.

/ / / / 

“She feels she should be included—“

“Yes, don’t we all?”

“Well, governor, it’s just that—“

“It’s just what, Vera?”

Vera stood in front of Joan’s desk as the older woman’s eyes bore into her. The younger woman found it incredible (and annoying as hell) that, despite the fact that Joan was seated and Vera was standing, the governor was still able to make her feel like she was no bigger than a mouse.

Vera cleared her throat and tried again.

“If Miss Westfall is here to help the women sort out their issues, don’t you think she should be informed of things that—“ Vera searched for the right words, “—cause the women to have issues?”

Joan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, orchestrating an escape from prison in order to murder someone is undoubtedly something that will cause one to have issues.”

“Yes,” Vera agreed. “But she is now the prison psychologist, which means she is a member of the staff. As a member of the staff, I feel she should be included in meetings, especially ones that concern crucial things happening to the women. She wants to speak with Smith, and I think it might be a good idea.”

Joan’s dark stare cut straight through Vera. The governor’s face was an impassive mask, as usual. She tapped two fingers against her desk and then rose from her chair.

“Do you honestly feel Smith’s behavior should be rewarded with coddling and hand-holding?” the governor asked.

Vera furrowed her brow. “Well, no, of course not, but a session with Miss Westfall would hardly be a reward.”

Joan scoffed. “She committed a crime, which is merely another one on the list of all the other crimes she’s already committed. She has received exactly what she deserves: Life in prison. What else does she require? She’s no innocent. She deserves imprisonment, not a pathetic crying session with the new psychologist.”

The younger woman’s eyes widened in bewilderment. She was rendered completely and totally speechless.

Joan sighed heavily and turned her gaze to the window. “Oh, Vera,” she said softly, “when will you ever learn?”

The officer swallowed thickly. “Sorry?”

The governor was still gazing out the window. “You mustn’t be so soft when it comes to the prisoners. I thought you had learned that by now, what with your—“ she looked at Vera, then, “unfortunate mishap.”

Vera felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“Despite what Miss Westfall believes,” Joan continued, “and what she has you believing, the staff of Wentworth is not here to indulge the prisoners and their bad behavior. We are not their friends.” Joan came around to the front of her desk and leaned against it, arms crossed. She towered over Vera, who unconsciously took a step backwards.

“In fact,” the governor pressed on, “you could say that staff and prisoners go together as well as oil and . . . vinegar.”

The last word was spoken with malice, and Vera felt like she’d been shivved in the exercise yard. She bowed her head and tried to stomp down the embarrassment that was crawling up inside of her. After a moment, she lifted her head, stood to her full height, and met Joan’s glittering eyes.

“I understand that,” the younger woman stated in an icy tone, “but I don’t feel that Miss Westfall should be excluded from any meetings. It is also my opinion that she be allowed to speak to Smith.”

The governor remained silent for what seemed like an hour, face expressionless, then gave a curt nod. “Very well,” she conceded, walking back around her desk and taking her seat. She grabbed her pen and began doing paperwork.

Vera stood, not sure if they were finished, until Joan asked, without so much as a glance at the younger woman, “Is that all?”

“Y-yes, governor,” Vera stuttered. “Thank you.” She turned and swiftly exited the office.

//// 

Vera knocked on the door twice.

“Come in.”

The officer entered the psychologist’s office, not bothering to close the door behind her. She examined the small space: Two comfortable looking chairs, a couple of statues—one of a human head—and a lamp. It was decorated simply.

“Vera,” Bridget said from behind her desk, looking up at the brunette with a small smile. There were several folders spread out in front of her

“Miss Westfall,” Vera greeted her, coming to stand in front of the desk. There it was, that smell again. Perfume. Floral.

“And to what do I owe this visit?” the blonde asked.

Vera stood with her hands clasped behind her back. “I just wanted to let you know, I spoke with Governor Ferguson, and she has agreed to include you in all future meetings.”

The psychologist leaned back in her chair and slowly nodded. “And what about Bea Smith?”

“You can speak with her,” Vera said.

Bridget slowly nodded once more and then offered Vera a bright smile. “Well, thank you for speaking to her on my behalf. I was actually planning on visiting with her once I finished up here.”

“I’ve already done that for you,” Vera snapped. “There’s no need for you to be so difficult.”

Bridget’s eyes widened marginally. “I wasn’t trying to be difficult, nor did I say I was actually going to speak to the governor. I said I had planned on it, but that was until you told me you’d already gone and talked to her.”

There was a beat. Vera tapped her foot and looked around the room. “Well, it looks like you’ve settled in nicely.”

“Yes,” Bridget agreed, “but it’s not like I had much to bring with me. I prefer to keep things simple. Much less baggage to unpack,” she said with a small laugh.

Vera furrowed her brow. “Pardon?”

The psychologist waved a hand dismissively. “Emotional and mental humor. Never mind.”

The officer smirked and shook her head. “Right then, well, I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Research,” Bridget explained, motioning towards the folders on her desk. “They’re prisoner files. I thought, if I am going to be counseling these women, I should get some background information on them.”

“I see,” Vera said. “Well, good luck on your first day.” She turned to walk away.

“Vera?”

The brunette looked back at the blonde.

“Thank you, really, for saying something to Ferguson. It is very much appreciated.”

Vera marveled at just how blue Bridget’s eyes were and wondered if the blue of her own eyes was as brilliant. 

She doubted it.

“You’re welcome,” the officer said, shaking herself out of her reverie.

The women held eye contact for a considerable length of time.

Vera blinked hard and hurried out of the room.

Goddamn that woman for expecting to be noticed and heard and respected on her first day, and for being so . . . appreciative.

Goddamn her.


	2. Chapter 2

Vera pulled into the carpark and shut off the engine. 

The past few days had been exhausting, and the nightmares were happening more and more.

Suddenly, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. The officer looked out the driver’s side window and jumped when she saw the smiling face of Bridget Westfall.

“For fuck’s sake,” Vera huffed, clutching her hand to her chest.

Bridget’s warm smile instantly faltered. She looked apologetic and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

Vera rolled her eyes, grabbed her bag, and stepped out of her car.

“How about you stop lurking around people’s vehicles?” the brunette sneered, slamming the car door.

The blonde frowned. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Vera slung her bag over her shoulder. Bridget was in her way, and Vera found herself involuntarily pressing her back against her car. Bridget was studying Vera, and the officer found herself rather uncomfortable under the scrutiny. She refused to show it, though. Instead, she tried to cut the psychologist down to size with the hardest stare she had to offer.

It didn’t seem to work. Bridget wasn’t relenting, and why did her eyes have to be so fucking blue? And that black blazer she wore looked good on her, and her hair looked rather nice pulled back into a low ponytail, and why didn’t Vera’s hair ever look that fucking nice when it was pulled back?

Goddamn her.

Vera’s lip curled. “I need to get inside.” She went to make her way around Bridget, but the blonde shuffled to the side, blocking the brunette’s exit route.

“I suggest you move,” Vera said coldly. 

Bridget sighed heavily. “Vera, I really am sorry I startled you.”

“Yes, I heard you the first time. Now, if you’ll excuse me—“

“No, no,” Bridget said, holding both hands up. “You’re not understanding me. I’m sorry I startled you, because I suspect you’re already on edge. That’s why I didn’t knock on your window. I didn’t want to frighten you.” She laughed dryly. “I suppose I failed, anyway, didn’t I?”

Vera crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes. “What, exactly, are you getting at?”

The expression on Bridget’s face softened. “After what happened,” she said gently.

Vera looked at the blonde evenly. “Please. There is no need to walk on eggshells around me.”

The psychologist smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I meant to talk to you after the riot, but every time I tried to find you, you were nowhere in sight.”

“That’s because some of us around here actually have work to do,” Vera snapped.

Bridget gazed sadly at the ground and then back up at the brunette. “Have you talked to anyone about it, Vera?”

The officer swallowed hard, looking everywhere except at the psychologist.

“Have you been experiencing nightmares?” Bridget softly pressed.

Vera shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes looking somewhere off into the distance. She said nothing.

“Vera,” the blonde continued gently. “You can talk to me.” 

The brunette sighed heavily and looked at Bridget, then. There was something about the other woman’s expression. It was soft. It radiated warmth.

Vera wasn’t used to anyone looking at her like that.

Vera sneered once again. “I’m not an inmate. I don’t need any therapy, but thank you very much,” she said unkindly.

Bridget pursed her lips and stepped aside.

Vera shifted her bag even farther up her shoulder, gave the blonde a stiff nod, and traipsed towards the entrance.

“If you need to talk,” Bridget called out from behind Vera, “you know where to find me.”

Vera ignored her and continued walking.

////

Vera stood at her locker, attempting to dig some hand cream out of her bag, when a tap on her shoulder made her jump.

“Sorry, Vera,” came the voice of Linda. 

Vera bit her lip, closed her locker, and forced herself to take several deep breaths before she finally turned around.

“It’s fine, Linda,” Vera said, clearing her throat. “What do you need?”

“I think there’s some shit going down between Franky Doyle and Cindy Loo.” 

Vera threw her head back. “Ah, when _isn’t_ there shit going down when it comes to Doyle?”

Linda laughed. “Yes, well, I caught wind of it and that you ought to know.”

Vera nodded. “Right, thanks.” She smoothed down her uniform and headed for the door. As she walked down the hallway, she realized she never retrieved her hand cream from her bag.

“Damnit,” she mumbled to herself.

////

Vera kept a close eye on Franky. Well, as close of an eye as she possibly could. 

It was time for meal prep in the kitchen, and the officer paced the hall outside, trying to remain inconspicuous. After several minutes of nothing, she decided Linda was probably wrong and that there were better, more productive things for her to be doing. 

Just as she was about to walk away, she heard footsteps in the distance. She slunk into a dark corner, watching as Cindy Loo and her gang headed into the kitchen. A few words were spoken—Vera couldn’t make out exactly what was said—and an inmate quickly scurried from the kitchen and down the hall. Vera continued to listen. She was able to catch a few words—collect, something not being enough, cash, teaching a lesson, and a few things spoken in a foreign language—and then there was yelling. The officer decided it was time to intervene. She shot out of the corner and threw open the kitchen door. 

There Franky Doyle stood, arms raised, a can of something in her hand. She was surrounded by a group of shouting women.

It looked like something from a nature documentary: The wild pack of wolves, circling prey, ready to pounce.

It all ended in a verbal abuse charge for Franky. After Vera ordered her to put the can down and made the other women leave the kitchen, things went south. She was only trying to scare some sense into Franky when she tried to threaten to take away the raven haired inmate’s position as kitchen manager. Predictably, Doyle became defensive, popped off, and insulted Vera. The officer gave her fair warning that her behavior would result in a verbal abuse charge, but Franky just kept pushing.

All throughout, Vera forced herself to appear calm and collected when, inside, she felt something like rage coiling.

Governor Ferguson supported Vera’s decision. The verbal abuse charge tacked on an extra six months before Franky could apply for parole. The inmate was understandably upset, but Vera shoved down all feelings of compassion.

She would not be disrespected. The women needed to learn.

She would teach them.

////

Leave it to Franky Doyle to continue to make waves.

Soon after the tattooed prisoner left the governor’s office, she was in the study room, causing chaos.

Vera and the other officers rushed in to find Doyle carelessly throwing books across the room as Bridget watched.

“What the hell is going on?” Vera demanded, stopping to stand beside Bridget.

Will announced that he was slotting Franky and promptly escorted her from the room. The inmate seemed thankful that she was being put into isolation, and Vera knew it had something to do with Cindy Loo and her gang. They stood at the doorway as Franky flipped them off on her way out.

“Always a pleasure, that one,” Vera said sarcastically.

Bridget looked at her in exasperation. “I think there was more to it than just Franky feeling angry.”

The officer scoffed. “Of course there was. You don’t need a master’s degree in psychology to figure that one out.”

The psychologist exhaled heavily and turned to face Vera, fixing her with a hard stare. 

“Why do you have to be so difficult?”

Vera blinked. “I wasn’t trying to—“

“But you were,” Bridget said, eyes full of heat.

Vera found it interesting how the blonde’s eyes could jump from cold, to warm, to hot, and back again, so quickly.

“I have to go inform the governor of what’s happened,” the brunette said, hurrying away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do these two always have to be so . . . difficult? ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things that go without saying, but I'll still say them: This is extremely AU, and I'm American.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Vera asked, her little legs working hard to keep up with Joan’s longer strides as they made their way down the corridor.

“Of course I do,” the governor replied. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have consented to it.”

“Well, it’s just that—“ 

Joan stopped in her tracks, and Vera came to a screeching halt beside her.

The taller woman turned and peered down at her deputy, ice in her eyes. “You doubt me?”

Vera swallowed hard. “Well, no, of course not.”

“It certainly sounds like it.”

Vera sucked in a deep breath. “Doyle acts out and gets, what, a slap on the wrist?”

Joan arched her eyebrows at Vera’s boldness.

The shorter woman decided to take it down a couple of notches. After all, she was speaking to her boss.

“I’m just saying,” Vera tried again, “I don’t feel that a night in the slot is a sufficient punishment.”

Joan crossed her arms. She looked like a statue. “And what kind of punishment do you feel would suffice?”

Vera shook her head. “I’ve no idea.”

“Before you decide to question my decisions,” the governor said coolly, “perhaps you should first think of what you would consider a more appropriate course of action. Then, when you come to me to voice your disagreement, you will also have an alternative to suggest.” 

Vera suddenly felt very foolish, but she refused to let it show. Instead, she chose a more brazen approach to the current situation. She scanned the corridor to make sure no one was around and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Governor, you yourself initially dismissed the suggestion of Smith having a counseling session with Miss Westfall. You said it was a reward; a pathetic crying session, yes?”

Joan’s eyes glittered.

“Why does Doyle only get one night in the slot, with her release being contingent upon counseling sessions with Miss Westfall?” Vera inquired.

“And you yourself campaigned for Miss Westfall,” the older woman shot back. “I seem to recall you, doing your best to convince me of her significance to the women, namely, to Smith.”

The younger woman blinked. She had no response to that one.

“Vera,” Joan drawled. “I can’t help but wonder why you are so concerned with this matter.”

Vera frowned. “Sorry?”

“Why does it bother you so much that I have agreed to Doyle’s release from isolation, under the condition that she attend weekly counseling sessions with Miss Westfall?”

The deputy was nonplussed. Bothered? She certainly wasn’t—

“I am not bothered by it,” Vera insisted.

“Well, it seems that way,” Joan said. “Invest your time in more important things, Miss Bennett,” she suggested in a condescending tone, uncrossing her arms and tugging on her cuffs.

The taller woman strode away, leaving a rather puzzled Vera standing alone in the corridor.

/ / / / 

“I am not bothered,” Vera mumbled to herself. 

It was late in the evening as she sat at the computer in the break room. Her eyes burned as she stared at the screen. It felt like there were dozens of tiny soldiers, marching in cadence across the surface of her brain. Nothing but a steady pounding. 

She scrubbed her face with her hands. She wasn’t bothered by anything. 

Right?

She snatched up her clipboard and hugged it to her chest as she rose from her seat. As she went to make her exit, she heard the clicking of high heels that were not her own.

“Vera?” a voice beckoned from behind her.

Vera turned to see none other than Bridget Westfall. Hair pulled back, as usual. Stylish, as usual. 

And then, there was that stupid fucking floral scent again. It was maddening. It was irritating.

It was . . . interesting.

The evening light that spilled in through the window cast a kind of dull blue color on the breakroom. It accentuated the shadows under Miss Westfall’s cheek bones.

“Can I help you with something?” Vera said crisply.

Bridget smiled kindly. “I wanted to discuss something with you.”

Vera stared at her expectantly.

“Oh, no,” the blonde chuckled. “Not here. I’d rather it be in private.”

The brunette looked around. “No one else is here, besides us.”

Bridget shook her head. “I feel my office would be a better place.”

Vera pursed her lips and lifted her chin. “Very well, then.”

The psychologist nodded. “See you in twenty minutes?”

The deputy sharply jerked her head.

Bridget smiled again and sauntered away with a click-click-clicking of her heels.

Vera stared at the spot in which Bridget had just been standing.

/ / / / 

Vera knocked twice.

“Come in,” Bridget called.

Vera entered the office, closing the door behind her, and remained standing there. 

The psychologist stood from behind her desk, motioning to the chair closest to the door.

“Please, have a seat, Vera.”

Vera glanced at the chair, then at Bridget, and back again. Her stomach was starting to knot up, and she didn’t understand why.

The blonde watched her, waiting.

After a considerably long moment, Vera finally made her way to the chair and sat, Bridget’s eyes on her the entire time. When the brunette looked settled, the blonde spoke.

“Drink?”

Vera furrowed her brow. “Excuse me?”

“Wine?” Bridget offered.

Silence.

Vera clasped her hands together in her lap. “You have alcohol in here?”

The psychologist nodded.

The deputy sat up straight. “That’s a bit unprofessional,” she chided.

Bridget fixed her with a sharp gaze. “Yet, rumor says the governor has a mini fridge in her office, fully stocked with alcoholic beverages.”

“She’s the governor,” the brunette sneered. “You’re not.”

The moment after she said it, Vera realized just how childish it sounded.

The blonde narrowed her eyes. “The employee handbook expressly prohibits the consumption of alcohol during work hours,” she said, peering at the watch that snugly hugged her small wrist. “And my shift ended eighteen minutes ago. Oh, no, wait—“ Bridget held a finger up. “Make that nineteen minutes. Yes, it ended nineteen minutes ago.”

Vera was torn between amusement and irritation, and she couldn’t help the tiny smirk that stretched her lips.

“I’d rather not,” the deputy said. “But, uh, thanks.”

“Well, then, you won’t mind if I do?” the psychologist asked, already making her way to her desk. She opened a drawer and pulled out a long-stemmed wine glass and a bottle.

Pinot.

For some reason, it made Vera feel a slight tingling all over.

After pouring herself half a glass full, Bridget took the seat opposite Vera, crossing her legs and taking a sip of wine. She swallowed.

Vera stared.

Bridget looked so elegant, so regal.

Vera pulled her eyes away. Her head was still aching.

“I wanted to discuss Franky Doyle,” the blonde finally said.

The brunette involuntarily cringed as her eyes met Bridget’s. “What about her?”

“The verbal abuse charge,” Bridget continued. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to rescind it.”

Vera felt a stab of hot anger. “Why would you ask me to do that?”

“Because,” the blonde explained, “I want to give her hope.”

“Hope,” the brunette echoed derisively .

Bridget stared into her glass and swirled the wine. Then, she fixed Vera with a sharp gaze.

“I genuinely feel she has potential,” the psychologist said. “She is very intelligent. One of the brightest inmates I’ve come across in my whole career. She could do a great deal of wonderful things – truly make something of herself – outside these walls. But the verbal abuse charge that’s hanging over her head now, is an impediment. She has to wait even longer to apply for parole, and that’s destroying any and all hope she has for a better life.”

Vera didn’t miss the passion behind Bridget’s words, and the pounding inside her head suddenly grew stronger.

“Potential?” the deputy scoffed. “Really? I’ve known Doyle longer than you’ve known her. She is violent, she is manipulative, and she is self-destructive. Don’t think you’re the only one who’s ever tried to help her. There were others, before you, and they all failed.”

The psychologist frowned. “I want to at least try. Perhaps the other people who have tried to help her just weren’t capable.”

“Oh, and you think you are?” Vera sneered.

Bridget shot Vera an incredulous look.

“You think you can just come in here and—“ Vera threw her hands out, struggling to find words. She stood and began to pace. “You haven’t been here long at all, but you think you have all the solutions, don’t you?”

Bridget calmly and evenly watched Vera as the brunette continued to pace.

“You’re agitated,” the blonde observed.

The brunette stopped pacing and narrowed her eyes at Bridget.

“I’m annoyed,” Vera corrected. “I’m annoyed that you waltz through the doors and act like you know everything. I’m annoyed that you’re trying to tell me how to do my job; that you have the audacity – especially as a new staff member – to question my choices—“

“I’m not—“

“And Franky Doyle,” Vera pressed on. “She’s a real piece of work, isn’t she? She gives you a wink and flashes you one of those smiles, and you fall for it! You fall for it, just like everyone else, just like Erica Davidson. Everyone falls for it, because Franky is just so charming and irresistible, right?”

Vera suddenly froze and snapped her mouth shut.

Bridget watched her curiously.

“I—“ Vera murmured, shaking her head. “I apologize. I have no idea where that came from. I . . .”

An awkward quiet settled in the office. Vera stared at the wall behind Bridget’s desk, confused by her outburst. She silently prayed the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Finally, Bridget spoke, cutting through the discomfort.

“Vera,” she said softly, rising from her chair.

The edges of the deputy’s vision began to blur; the room, a freshly painted picture, the corners smudged by the unsteady hand of its artist.

“Vera,” Bridget spoke again.

Vera tore her eyes from the wall, and in front of her stood Bridget, shining eyes and alluring scent.

The deputy blinked hard.

“Here,” the psychologist said, offering Vera her glass of wine. “Have a sip. It always calms me down.”

“I do not need to calm down,” Vera snarled. “I’m already calm.” Even as she said it, though, she took the proffered glass, holding it with a hand that was slightly shaking. She couldn’t help but notice the pink stain of lipstick on the rim. It gave her a strange sensation of warmth and something else, something she couldn’t quite identify.

She took a generous gulp of her favorite wine (but Bridget didn’t need to know it was her favorite, now did she?) and handed the glass back.

Bridget took it and studied Vera.

“Vera,” she said, “I apologize. I wasn’t questioning your decision, and I’m sorry you got that impression.”

Vera straightened her uniform and stood to her full height, trying to regain her composure.

“And Franky . . . you make it sound like she’s seduced me, bewitched me in some way, but she hasn’t. I am a professional. I just want to help her. I want to give her hope.”

The way the psychologist spoke of Franky – the tenderness in her voice and in her eyes – made the deputy want to squirm.

"I'll consider it, and I have to run it by the governor," Vera said.

Bridget tilted her head. "Well, if that's the best I can get . . ." 

The brunette rolled her eyes and let out a mirthless laugh. 

"And why do you have to run it by the governor?" the blonde asked coolly. 

Vera arched both eyebrows. 

"You're the one who instated the charge," Bridget pointed out. "As the deputy governor, you have the authority to do that, and I'm sure you also have the authority to revoke it." 

The nerve of this woman . . .

Vera crossed her arms and scanned Bridget's face with cold, hard eyes. She felt like she had been backed into a corner. Trapped. She fought the urge to wring her hands.

But then, Bridget was staring at her with such softness in her eyes, and even something that looked a bit like pleading, and Vera felt like the room was spinning, and she needed to get out of there.

“Fine,” the brunette reluctantly agreed. “I will take the charge away.”

Bridget’s face lit up.

Vera neared Bridget in two steps. She stood in front of the other woman, hardening her features. When she spoke, it was in a frosty tone.

"I am doing you a favor," the deputy said, "but you will not forget my position in this prison. I enforce the rules, and I punish those who break the rules. I am here to correct."

The psychologist lifted her chin. "And I am here to help."

The two women eyed one another.

Vera shook her head. "It's late. I'm leaving."

Bridget downed the remaining wine in one swallow, walking away to place the empty glass on her desk. Grabbing her coat and keys, she sauntered towards Vera and reached for the light switch.

“Oh,” she suddenly said, motioning towards the deputy’s head. “You’ve got—“

“What?” Vera asked, patting her head.

"Your hair,” the psychologist said. “Do you mind? I can just—“

Bridget was standing close, so close that the two women were taking in the same puffs of air.

“Just here,” the blonde said, reaching out and tugging on a loose strand that had fallen from the deputy's crisp bun.

Vera felt something like heat, twisting in her stomach. "I've got it," she said, pushing Bridget's hand away. She took a step back and tucked the stray lock behind her ear.

They fixed their gazes on each other for a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, like a streak of ink across a blank page.

The ache in Vera’s head suddenly didn’t seem so bad anymore.

////

Vera sat alone in her bedroom, replaying the events of the day in her mind.

The sound of passing cars in the night broke through the silence. She imagined the people who occupied the houses that peppered her street, winding down for the day. Houses full of families and evening dinners together; of couples and lovemaking and memory making.

Houses full of laughter.

The silence in her own home suddenly seemed overwhelming. Choking. Clawing.

Vera watched the shadows of the gently swaying trees outside, falling across the walls of her room. She curled up in her bed, thinking about her evening visit with Bridget Westfall.

In that moment, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time, a kind of foreign sensation: A slow, aching burn in her center, like a freshly lit candle, the flame’s intensity rising.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Vera reached into her pajama pants and down her underwear, her index and middle finger working together to carry her into a state of utter bliss.

A peaceful slumber followed, gently tugging on her hair and pulling her into its depths.


End file.
